Backroad, watermelon, well water

 I saw a friend say all they needed was ‘A Carolina backroad, watermelon and well water’. It made me smile. I understood the feeling. What he described I felt in my soul. I can’t drive, but I can just picture riding in an old pickup spitting watermelon seeds out the window while the solo cup I carry from home was some water from the well waiting on to guzzle as I swelter in triple digit heat. 

The radio is blasting my eardrums. The warm breezes brush the follicles. The heat brings the sweat on a tank top that’s seen better days. It doesn’t look great. More like a worn dishrag. The memories it holds. The bonfires in the front pasture sitting on square bales. The days picking up sticks. Fishing with a cane pole. Picking muscadines. Not that I knew what they were until South Carolina became the place I first learned would set my world upside down. 

I learned from the old ladies the hard work of picking cotton and frying fatback. I said so many times there wasn’t anything to do in these backwoods, but I was young and dumb. Now I treasure my privacy and quiet. If nobody knew my name. I’d survive. When the world tells you that what you offer has no value, you don’t worry. 

The thoughts of others no longer resonate. Look above. The world will tell what you want to hear until it decides your old news. Eventually we all become old news. So I will revel in the backroad, watermelon and well water. The land again delivers. The earth teaches enjoyment because one day you return to where you start. 

So Lord, I’m here again. It starts and ends with you. Always has. Always will. I forget it all too often. And in the most simplistic moments you take the time. The time to remind me what will matter. And what never does.